Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(43)

A banishment spell might be a very, very bad idea.

I’ll need to get him out some other way. But first—

My eyes flick to my social media page, where the picture of me and Sybil is still taking up most of the screen.

I cross over to my desk before leaning over Memnon so I can exit out of the page.

Memnon bends forward, skimming his lips against my hair.

I freeze at the contact.

“You came and woke me”—he almost purrs it, his voice is so soft—“and now you continue just existing as though nothing has changed.”

I swallow, trying to control the way my body trembles at his nearness. My dreams come back to me then, and I vividly remember how it felt to have him close.

I shut my laptop screen and back away from the desk.

Memnon catches my wrist. “Roxilana, tell me why,” he beseeches.

For once, this terrifying supernatural is unguarded, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me, something beyond heat and anger.

“My name is Selene,” I remind him.

“You can lie to everyone else, but not to me,” he says.

He really thinks this is some elaborate charade this woman, Roxilana, has been keeping up.

No wonder he’s confused.

“I’m not her,” I insist.

He stands slowly from his seat, and I’m reminded all over again of just how large this man is. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. It doesn’t help that every inch of him seems to be made of heavy corded muscle.

Memnon reaches out, and I shrink away. He scowls when he sees my reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up.

One of his thumbs strokes my cheek. “You have my Roxi’s same blue eyes, down to the white line that rings the inside of them.” He tilts my face to the side, moving one of his hands to touch something near my ear. “You have the same two freckles she had right here.” As Memnon speaks, his eyes soften.

His hand moves to my hair, and it’s as though he’s forgotten himself and his vendetta for a moment. His touch is almost reverent as he runs his fingers along the strands. I find myself mesmerized by it.

“And this hair,” he says, “is the same cinnamon color my Roxi’s was.” He drops my hair then, his other hand still cupping my face. “You have a birthmark on the back of your left thigh, and your second toes are longer than your big ones. Shall I go on?”

I stare at him like I’ve seen a ghost. “H-how do you know those things about me?” I say.

His brows come together in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I know those things? I have spent years mapping you out—as you have me.”

What?

Almost instinctively, my gaze moves to that scar of his. Memnon has many distinct features, but that scar is perhaps the most prominent of them.

Seeing where my attention is drawn, he says softly, “You can touch it, est amage.”

I shouldn’t.

It feels at best like a bad idea and at worst, a trap. That doesn’t stop me from stepping into Memnon’s space and reaching out a tentative hand. The moment my fingers touch the puckered skin of his scar, his eyes close and his nostrils flare.

Memnon stands as still as stone while I draw my fingers along the path of it, moving first to his ear, then down toward his chin.

“This looks like it hurt,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound. Because of course it hurt. It must’ve been awful.

I get to the end of the scar, and reluctantly, I let my hand drop.

When Memnon opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of his anger. Instead, there’s longing so deep, it makes my stomach flip.

“Wife,” he breathes, his eyes moving to my lips.

I swallow, my own gaze going to his mouth. I want to kiss him again, just to taste his yearning. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.

But I’m not his wife. Whatever wonderful, tragic love story he had, it wasn’t with me.

I place a hand to my temple, trying to clear away my own desire. “How do you know English?” I say distractedly, just to get my mind off kissing him.

“You know my power,” he says, almost obstinately, as though he thinks I’m still lying. “You know I can pull what I want from the minds of others, including language.”

My eyes widen.

He can do what now?

Memnon tilts his head. “Why are you still pretending with me, Empress?” he asks, some of that earlier anger seeping back into his eyes.

“I’m not pretending anything, Memnon.”

“Then how do you know Sarmatian, the language of my people? Supposedly, it’s been a dead language for many, many centuries.”

So that’s the language I’ve been speaking. Sarmatian. “I know several inexplicable—”

“It’s not inexplicable,” Memnon insists before I can finish. “It’s proof of your life with me.”

I give him a look. “This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Memnon.”

His gaze grows intense. “No, nearly everything in my life is about you.”

He continues to stare at me, and it causes me to squirm.

“I’m not your Roxi,” I insist, not letting myself dwell on his point about languages. “I can prove it.”